My singularly unique, doubtlessly engaging, now and again amusing perceptions of travel, dogs, and life!

Bichon Frise

08/21/2010

I’ve read of many dog owners that claim their dogs smile. I’ve even seen photos, on calendars and in magazines, which the owner claims depicts a dog smiling. But those photos are usually of a dog panting. I’m sorry, but a dog panting is a far cry from a dog smiling. It’s usually a photo of a Golden Retriever or a Yellow Lab or a Boston Bull Terrier panting: its mouth open, its lips drawn back and the corners of the mouth raised slightly, which is what happens as a matter-of-course when they pant. Or it is a picture of a dog whose mouth is naturally shaped in a smile-like expression, like the Siberian Husky or the Shiba Inu. Even I sometimes like to claim that my bichons are smiling (or smirking, or sneering, whatever) when they have licked their lips and the hair around their mouth is accidently rearranged into a position that makes them look like they are smiling (see photo below). But, no, I don’t buy it...those are not real dog-smiles.

The only time I have ever seen a real live dog-smile was on Maddie. She was black and had short hair on her head, face and muzzle, so when she smiled you could really see those pearly whites (well, sometimes lemony yellows). She only smiled in one particular circumstance, but she actually smiled-- and on purpose.

I would come home from work, pull into the driveway, click the garage door opener and slam the door as I got out of the car. Maddie, Figaro and Phoenix would tear through the doggy door and across the garage to welcome me home in the driveway. As the boys would greet me, they would inevitably try to jump on me. But Maddie had her own special greeting for me. She would wag her tail and come toward me in a funny kind of waddle, dunking and bobbing her little head, and when she got close she stretched her front legs out and dropped down onto her elbows, lowering her chest to the ground and sticking her rump in the air-- and she smiled. Her upper lip would completely clear her upper teeth as she looked upward at me through her little eye lashes, slivers of white appearing at the bottom of her eyes. It was so obviously a deliberate smile that I would exclaim in delight every time she did it! I would make John look: "John, look! She’s smiling! Maddie’s smiling! Awww, Maddie, are you smilin’ at me? Look at that, such a sweet smile!" And her smile would get bigger. John, who is not one to personify dogs, was amazed the first time he saw Maddie smile. He could not deny that she was indeed smiling.

When I googled "dog smiles" I got 265,000 results, including some you-tube videos of dogs smiling. And many truly appeared to be, but I didn’t like the one where the dog was being scolded and his reaction was to lift his upper lip above his front teeth and turn his head away from the camera. Or the ones where the dogs were being teased with a treat until they lifted their upper lips to bare their teeth to get their reward. But some were of dogs with pretty convincing smiles. So I realize that Maddie was not the only dog in the world to truly smile.

In the google results I also noticed some articles on how to teach a dog to smile. I didn’t bother reading them: if you have to go to that much work, you’re not smiling at your dog enough! Because I think Maddie learned to smile from me smiling at her. And I feel good about that, that I smiled enough at her during her lifetime that she learned to smile back.

Not all dogs can learn to smile that way. I smile a lot at Figaro and Phoenix and they don’t literally smile back. But I know they feel the goodness that is projected by my smile, because when I smile at Phoenix he tips his head to one side, and when I smile at Figaro his ears perk up. Those responses are almost as rewarding to me as Maddie’s smile, because I know they associate my smile with something pleasant or good. Sometimes I’ll smile at them just to get those reactions, because it is their way of smiling back and I like being smiled at.

I love the feeling I get when someone smiles at me--just at me--not at something I’m saying or doing or giving, but just smiles at the pure pleasure of seeing me. Think about it, how great it is to get that kind of smile from someone. It is actually extremely rare (so rare that when it happens, you are tempted to look around and see what is happening to make the person smile, or you think suspiciously, "What’s up with that? What do they want from me?"). It feels good to smile at someone like that, too. Try it...you’ll see. The next time you see a friend or family member, greet them with a great big smile, instead of just a pleasant expression on your face and a "Hi, how you doin’" The feeling you get and the feeling you give is golden.

One of the regrets I have is that I never arranged to take a picture of Maddie smiling at me. It is one of the things I miss most about her, that toothy grin welcoming me back to the den: Alpha is home; all is well again. I’ll just have to be content with the picture of her smile stored in my mind’s eye. And I’ll have to use the memory of Maddie's dog-smile to remind me to be more intentional in sharing my own smile. :)

(This is not a picture of Maddie smiling: it was the last day of Sasha's life and Maddie shared her water with him. Maddie was fighting her natural urge to bare her teeth at Sasha's nearness to her bowl; I was proud of her restraint that day.)

07/31/2010

The title to Don McLean’s song "The Day the Music Died" describes the endless day that was the six-month period before Figaro came to live with us in April, 2001. The six months prior to Figaro joining us were difficult months in our household, leaving it dank and silent. Figaro brought some fresh air and a little music back to our sad lives.

The music in our lives had begun to fade in September of 2000, when, at age 13, Rags began to suffer from a succession of health problems, first glaucoma, then autoimmune hemolytic anemia, and finally pancreatitis. We were unsuccessfully medicating the glaucoma, trying to measure the pressure in his eyes at home with an instrument our vet lent us, frequently driving a 5-hour round trip to Columbus and back to see a veterinary specialist, arranging for periodic blood transfusions with a local vet in Wheeling under the supervision of the Columbus vet, and spending thousands of dollars on our sick little friend, without seeing improvement. It started to seem like the proverbial boy and the dike, who every time he plugged a hole in the dike with his finger the dike sprang another leak. So with the gentle assistance of the veterinary specialist, we made the difficult decision to end Rags's suffering by putting him to sleep on Jan. 16, 2001.

In the midst of that painful ordeal, John had a heart attack resulting in open heart quadruple bypass surgery and a 15-day hospitalization between Thanksgiving and Christmas of 2000. In the aftermath, John suffered for months with pain, weakness, and depression. So when Figaro came to us, we weren't only mourning the loss of Rags but also the loss of John’s health.

Because John was so emotionally distant during that time, through no fault of his own, I began looking halfheartedly at a website I knew of, Small Paws Rescue, which had several Maltese, Maltipoo, and Bichon mixes and purebreds available for adoption. I’d always assumed Rags was a Maltese-poodle mix, or part Bichon, so I was looking for something like him, since he’d turned out to be such a great little dog. Through the website and a couple of phone calls, I located a groomer in Ann Arbor, Michigan, who had 2 or 3 Bichons that she was fostering until she could find homes for them. We agreed to take the 7-month-old male who’d been her grooming client when the owners, a young working couple who couldn’t keep up with this growing ball of energy, had decided to give him up. So on the Saturday before Easter, April 7, 2001, we collected him from his foster home, immediately changed his name from Jasper to Figaro, and made him a permanent member of our family.

On the way home from Ann Arbor, I held Figaro firmly on my lap and discovered that he was very good in the car. No motion sickness or anxiety. So the longer we drove, the looser I allowed my grip on him to become, and he ended up spending a long portion of the drive standing with his back feet on the seat next to me and his front feet on the console between John and I, leaning toward John. It appeared that if I’d let him go, he would have climbed right over the console onto John’s lap. Apparently he had decided he liked John. Male bonding, perhaps. A sign of good things to come.

When I’d gotten Rags, I’d taken him to obedience classes which helped establish the unusually strong bond that developed between us. So, a couple months after we got Figaro, we started taking Figaro and Maddie to weekly dog training classes at a facility which trains dogs and puppies for competition obedience, tracking, schutzhund, therapy, house manners, scent work, police and protection. We agreed that John was going to train Figaro and I was going to train Maddie. I was a little jealous that he got Figaro, but I knew it would be a good thing for John if he could continue developing his bond with Figaro.

When we arrived on the first night of class, we thought maybe we’d made a mistake: all the other dogs were Rottweilers, German Shepherds, Boxers, Doberman Pinschers, and the like...we weren’t sure we were going to get out of there alive. Some of the other owners were policemen, and most were interested in competition. We were in a totally different mindset: we were there with our little 10-pound dogs just to have fun, bond, and maybe teach them some manners. However, the trainers assured us it was fine. So we joined the huge circle of big scary dogs out in the field and began our lessons.

We needn’t have worried. Although they were small, Figaro and Maddie were at least as smart as the other dogs and had no problems learning the lessons. And the big scary dogs were only big and scary to John and me. Maddie and Figaro had no idea there was a reason to be scared of a dog that was 20 times bigger than them. Kind of like David and Goliath. Even more so because Figaro conquered the class when the owner used him to teach the class that the size of the dog doesn’t matter, only the size of his heart.

We had gotten to the point in our lessons where we’d taught our dogs to sit and stay for various lengths of time in various circumstances. On one particular evening, we were required to individually test our dog in front of the group: we had to put our dog in a sit-stay, turn our back on the dog and walk across the field to the other opposite side of the huge circle and stand amongst the other owners with their dogs. Then the trainer would ask some people to trade places on the circle. After we stood there for however long we wanted to make it, we had to call our dog to come to us. If the dog broke anytime before he was called, we had to go to the dog, put him on his leash and walk him back to his place and start all over again. Needless to say, it was a challenge to the dogs in several respects.

When it was Figaro’s turn, John put him in a sit-stay. Figaro looked up at him expectantly. Then John turned his back on Figaro and walked away. I held my breath, but Figaro, never taking his eyes off John, sat at attention, leaning forward, quivering in anticipation. He wanted nothing more than to follow John, but he didn’t. After John found a place on the other side of the circle across the field, the trainer had some people move around to different places on the circle. Figaro waited eagerly for John to call him. Finally, John called out, "Figaro, Come!" Figaro took off like a shot and tore after John like a thoroughbred out of the starting gate, thundering across the field as only a little dog can thunder. The only glitch was that he ran to the wrong guy!

When he realized he was facing a stranger, Figaro's confusion was obvious. He looked around for the familiar face of his owner, quickly found John and determinedly bounded over to him. Everyone watching got a good laugh out of the scene, but the trainer ordered, "Listen up, People! Figaro and his owner are going to try it again and I want you to watch closely." And the trainer made John and Figaro repeat the exercise for the class. Again, Figaro sat at attention, waiting for his que. When John was in place across the field, he called, "Figaro, Come!" We all watched as Figaro shot across the field. I can still see it in slow motion in my mind’s eye: Figaro stretched out in the air between the rhythmic moments when his four paws hit the ground. He looked like he was sailing through the air. And then he landed. He came to a halt in a perfect sit in front of John, panting happily. John rewarded him with a treat and a grin. Then the trainer declared, "This is what I’m talking about, Folks. This is what you want in a dog, no matter what kind of dog you have. Figaro may be small, but he is my hero. This dog has heart."

Well, go to the head of the class. Who knew? Certainly not John, whose own heart swelled with pride at his little friend’s accomplishment. Not the other handlers who smiled but were secretly envious, wondering how to get their big dogs to develop a heart like this pipsqueak’s. Not the other dogs, who literally looked down their noses at him. Even Figaro, in his innocence, didn’t know. All Figaro knew was that one day his beloved owners dropped him off at his groomer’s and he never saw them again, so one day life was good and the next it was confused. He knew that with us life was good again, not confused anymore, and that he wanted to keep it that way. Figaro did that the only way he knew how: he gave us his heart. That may sound kind of sappy, but when you think about it, that’s really all any of us need to give in order to keep life’s confusion at bay, whether it be from the heart, of the heart, with all your heart, or, simply, your heart. With his good-hearted desire to please, Figaro, single-handedly (paw-edly?), put a song back in our hearts. (...betchya can't guess the name of it.)

05/16/2010

I’m sure I’m not the only one of us who was originally warmed by that overly sentimental expression that "Dog is God spelled backwards." If you search "God spelled backwards" on the internet, you’ll get dozens of hits associated with sappy stories about dogs in our world. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a sucker for that kind of thing...after all, did I not search "God spelled backwards" on the internet to discover that? Do I not write the Travelog & Dog Blog? But in all that wonderfully mushy stuff about dogs, I’ve not come across another dog-lover who seems to have made the connection that our relationship with dogs symbolizes God’s relationship with us. Let me illustrate:

I brought each one of my dogs into my life merely so that I could love and care for them. I didn’t need them; I just wanted something to love and be loved by. Before I even got them, I prepared a world for them filled with food, bowls, beds, leashes, baby gates and barriers, and, not the least, toys! I organized their world to promote their health and happiness. I arranged our house and yard so they could live in it comfortably and with as much freedom as feasible under the circumstances. I love them, cuddle them, comfort them, keep them as safe as possible, supply for their every need, and all I ask in return is that they love me back, within their limited capacity to do so. Each has his own individual way of showing me that.

I try to teach them how to act in a way that will not only please me but will be best for them in the long run (or even in the short run!). But they are naturally bad boys! They can be so sweet and loving one minute and fighting and stealing and messing up the world I’ve thoughtfully created for them the next. Their short stretches of good behavior can only last so long before they interrupt it with something I wish they hadn’t done. But I know that they are only dogs, with limited understanding and capabilities and memory, so I forgive them. Even when I know they CAN help it, I always wipe the slate clean (often literally!) and love them in spite of their disobedience.

In other words, I love them unconditionally. Even their most off-putting behavior does not cause me to get rid of them. Certainly life would be easier, less expensive, less aggravating, without them. But despite their bad-ness, they add a richness to my life that only another dog-lover can understand and appreciate.

God brought each one of us into his life merely so that He could love and care for us. He didn’t need us; He just wanted something to love and be loved by. Before He even got us, He prepared a world for us filled with food, bowls, beds, leashes, baby gates and barriers, and, not the least, toys! He organized our world to promote our health and happiness. He arranged His house and yard so we could live in it comfortably and with as much freedom as feasible under the circumstances. He loves us, cuddles us, comforts us, keeps us as safe as possible, supplies for our every need, and all He asks in return is that we love him back, within our limited capacity to do so. Each of us has our own individual way of showing Him that.

He tries to teach us how to act in a way that will not only please Him but will be best for us in the long run (or even in the short run!). But we are naturally bad humans! We can be so sweet and loving one minute and fighting and stealing and messing up the world He’s thoughtfully created for us the next. Our short stretches of good behavior can only last so long before we interrupt it with something He wishes we hadn’t done. But He knows that we are only human, with limited understanding and capabilities and memory, so He forgives us. Even when He knows we CAN help it, He always wipes the slate clean and loves us in spite of our disobedience.

In other words, He love us unconditionally. Even our most off-putting behavior does not cause Him to get rid of us. Certainly life would be easier, less expensive, less aggravating, without us. But despite our bad-ness, we add a richness to His life that only God can understand and appreciate.

.....I think I may be onto something here! Our relationship with dogs is almost a perfect microcosm of God’s relationship with us! So maybe it is no accident that Dog is God spelled backwards!

Okay, okay, okay, I realize that nay-sayers will find inconsistencies with my analogy. To them I point out that analogies are not meant to be perfect; otherwise, they wouldn’t be analogies. I also realize that Dog only spells God backwards in ENGLISH. But, to borrow a phrase from Jenn Lewis, our outreach pastor at the Wheeling Vineyard, "one of the things I like about God is" that he uses what makes sense to an individual to teach that individual the lessons that individual needs to learn. Maybe one of the lessons I needed to learn was about Grace? God’s Grace to me, and mine to other people? So besides leading me to some great books about it, like Ragamuffin Gospel, by Brennan Manning (which, by the way, contains the name of my first dog, Ragamuffin... There really are no coincidences!!), I think He’s also using my dogs to help teach me lessons in Grace. What a great way of teaching! Using what I love to teach me what He loves!

I just would like to ask Him one thing: God, do You think You think You could stop using them to test me? This marking in the house thing has got to go.

What?

I haven’t learned my lesson yet?

Oh.

(..sigh...the trials and tribulations of a slow learner...)

Pictured below: Figaro and Phoenix attempting to debunk the canon that there is no rest for the wicked...

05/09/2010

The seed of The Contest was planted on the day before my birthday in October, 2001, a day that will live in infamy (at least in our family). That is the day we introduced our second Bichon rescue, 2-year-old Phoenix, to our household. When we got him, we had no idea of his background. We only knew that he was a male, that he was recently neutered, and that when he was found, he’d been on his own for a while, undernourished, filthy, with a coat full of burrs. And we knew that we wanted to give him a good home. On that first day, we went to great lengths to ensure a happy homecoming for one and all. We seemed to be successful, but it didn’t forestall The Contest!

I had read that when transitioning a dog into a household containing other dogs it would be helpful if we introduced them on neutral territory. To accomplish this, we’d made arrangements to meet at a nearby park as John drove in with Phoenix from four hours away after retrieving him from the fellow dog-lover who’d rescued him from a kill shelter. I brought our other Bichon, 1-year-old Figaro, and the leader of the pack, 7-year-old Maddie, to the park and introduced each of them to Phoenix and let all three sniff and explore and walk around together on leashes. After about an hour of letting them get to know one another in ways that only dogs can appreciate, we took them all home. As I had learned to do years before from a dog trainer, I then kept Phoenix tethered to me with a leash for the next 24 hours so I could learn to recognize on his need to go outside and prevent an accident indoors. As you can see, I had really thought this through! I was ready! ( and so unsuspecting...)

All went swimmingly, at least until the next morning when I opened the front door to get the paper – and Phoenix bolted. I grabbed an overcoat, threw it over my nightshirt and ran after him from yard to yard through the neighborhood. I was mortified, praying that the neighbors would not see me tearing through their front yards with naked legs under my overcoat! It took Phoenix awhile to stop following his nose long enough for me to grab him. He finally paused to lift his leg (prophetically) and I was able to grab him (and resist strangling him). Little did I know that this was my debut performance in The Contest!

A bit of background: when Maddie came to us she was perfectly housetrained. I mean, being a girl she probably trained herself, as we ladies are wont to do in almost anything we have to learn in order to get along in life. When we acquired Figaro as a seven-month-old, he’d been in a nice home, so after a few days in our home, we were pleased to see that he remembered his housetraining and was performing perfectly in that regard. We lived accident-free for the 6 months before Phoenix arrived (an era known as B.P., or Be Pee, as I like to call it), blissfully ignorant of what was to come.

When we discovered Phoenix lifting his leg inside the house soon after he arrived, we tattled on him to his vet. The vet suggested taking Phoenix to work with me each day, to build his confidence and reduce the competition he probably perceived at home. It made a lot of sense, because at the office, Phoenix was top dog! The staff loved him so much that he was never without someone to take him out when he asked to go, so he did not have accidents there. And being the only dog at the office, he did not need to mark it as his territory. But at home the problem became entrenched. Phoenix seemed to have an unsatisfiable desire to mark his territory, which included the whole house, inside and out, and every single leaf and blade of grass in our sizeable yard; hense, The Contest.

For the uninitiated, the object of The Contest is for the dog to mark by peeing on them as many locations as he possibly can before his human opponent notices it and tries to erase it, or after his canine opponent notices it and tries to cover it with his own mark! As Phoenix’ human opponent, I gave him a run for his money from the beginning. After all, I have an eye like an eagle, a nose like a bloodhound, and reflexes like a ... I don’t know what. Figaro, on the other hand, was not as eager to join in the competition. He did his level best to ignore the challenge to enter into The Contest for about a year. He was such a good boy, bless his little heart...he tuned out Phoenix’ taunting as long as he could. But finally he could no longer resist the constant temptation. He cringed and picked up the gauntlet that Phoenix had thrown down the year before. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself: he just had to compete!!!

For a mere human, The Contest is a trying game, take my word for it. I have eventually come to realize what the dogs knew all along: The Contest doesn’t presume a winner. The object of it is merely to perpetuate itself, day after day, year after year, for the rest of the dogs’ lives. Can I win? Never! Will I survive? I’m not so sure ... let me put it this way: I am no match for these two canine contestants. Their perseverance outweighs their chagrin when I catch them in the act or, more often, after the fact. And I know their love of the game will far outlast my vocal cords. You’d think my ability to yell would give me an advantage over the dogs, but noooooooo! As I weary from their ever-widening lead, everyone seems to have advice about how to put an end to The Contest. I thank them for their concern and politely assure them that I have tried everything in my power. No, The Contest is here to stay, as long as Phoenix and Figaro occupy our home at the same time.

Since there is no winner in The Contest, you may wonder what the status of the players is after, lo, these many years in the competition. Well, from the beginning, John refused to participate. He even refuses to root for me! He simply will not take sides (except his own side, which is to steer clear when I find that the next move is mine). As for me, the years of competition have taken their toll. For one thing, coming in dead last all the time has shaken my faith in the system. You know, the one in which Man has dominion over animals? For another, it has lead me to a life of gambling. I now invest heavily in the stock market: the makers of Bounty, Nature’s Miracle, Pledge, and Mr. Clean are my favorite companies on which to roll the dice. When it comes to the dogs, Phoenix remains a real player, but I think Figaro has surpassed him as a competitor. I think Phoenix now realizes that he created a monster when he challenged Figaro to compete. I could have warned him. As I always say, be careful what you wish for, you might just get it. Would that I had heeded my own advice!

04/23/2010

Phoenix, one of my two Bichon Frise, is just too cute. He can't help himself. Can you believe I shot and created this portrait with my iPhone, just using PhotoShop.com Mobile (a free app)? Of course, it helps to have a good subject!

04/03/2010

I know, you think that if they speak English, as proven by the brilliant example of deductive reasoning set forth in DogSpeak uno, it goes without saying that they understand English. I beg to differ...it does not go without saying. Just because one can speak a language doesn't mean one can understand the language. I am a living, breathing, human example of that. I can speak and even read some Italian, and even less French, Spanish, and Russian, but I can't understand a thing those people are saying to me after I ask a simple question. For example, when I was in Paris, I went to the ticket booth at the Metro (subway) and said, rather smugly I’ll admit, "Paris Visite, pour cinq jours, deux, s’il vous plait." And the ticket agent went off on me. I couldn’t understand a word she said. Even now I can picture the confusion and drops of sweat which crept onto my face and which that French ticket agent observed with satisfaction when it became obvious that my ability to rattle off my request in French (without an accent even) was a fluke, a prepared script! My deer-in-the-headlights look and apologetic groveling must have worked. Somehow we ended up with the two 5-day Metro Passes I’d requested, but the whole experience shook my confidence so that when I had to go back toward the end of the week and buy the 2-day metro pass, I was shaking in my boots. And I made a point of going to a different ticket booth.

But I digress.

My dogs do understand English. Here is sample of the vocabulary they hear throughout the day and seem to understand perfectly, given their subsequent responsive behavior (which I leave to your imaginations):

"Figaro!"

"Phoenix!"

"Maddie!"

"Want your Breakfast?"

"Want your SUPPER??"

"Wanna TREAT?"

"Wanna go OUTSIDE?"

"Sit. ... Sit. ... Sit! ... Finally...I mean, Good Dog."

"Les petit chaud chiens!" (Sometimes I slip in a little French, just to see if they’re listening.)

"NO!"

"Stop that!"

"Get off the kitchen table! You’re not allow up there!!!"

"Come on, into the kitchen. We’re leaving. Be good. Don’t be bad. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, like pee on the floor. We’ll be back soon." (Okay, maybe they don’t understand all that, maybe it’s just that I force them into the kitchen and lock them in, after tilting the kitchen chairs up against the table so Phoenix can’t get on it and watch us out the window as we drive away. I guess that kind of gives away the meaning.)

"Hi, buddies! We’re back!"

"Wanna sit on my lap?"

"It’s too hot, get off get off get off, hurry up, get off! Thank you."

"Okay, time for bed."

"Get in your bed."

"Maddie, get in your own bed." (Well, since she’s deaf, she probably understands the meaning of my picking her up out of Figaro’s bed and setting her down in her own. That’s not exactly understanding English, I’ll grant you that.)

"Figaro, stop that licking and go to sleep."

"SHHHHHH!"

"Awww, Figaro, do you have to go out now?? Why didn’t you do that when you were out the last time? Why do you think I made you go out the last time?? Oh, alright, but next time do it before you go to bed"

03/27/2010

If you think about it, you would probably agree with my conclusion that the names we lavish on our pets divulge much about us, not them. But I have another theory: that our pets seem to grow into their monikers and reflect the qualities suggested by the names we bestow upon them; therefore, a pet’s name can end up revealing as much about him it does his owner.

Over the years, I’ve had many pets whom I’ve named. If they've come to me with a name, I've changed the name to suit both me and my perception of my pet. Sometimes we have named them before we even met them! That, of course, reveals more about us than the pet, but even in those cases our pets seem to end up mirroring the qualities of their appellations!

When I acquired my first pets, two unnamed kittens that I chose from a litter, I had no philosophy about naming pets. So I named the two kittens whatever struck my fancy. The little white one I called Spirit, because he was white as a ghost, and the little gray and white one, Gus, after a college friend on whom I had a crush. Spirit and Gus: sweet simple names for sweet simple kittens. But one day Spirit disappeared just like a ghost and Gus apparently had followed along, never to be seen again (just like my college friend!). And so it begins...the forming of my hypothesis.

About 13 years later my hypothesis was successfully re-tested when I decided to try this pet thing again. I found my first dog, a little white Maltese mix, at a shelter so he didn’t come with a name. I decided that I wasn’t going to give him a human name. I philosophized that since he was an animal, I did not want to personify him (boy, did he teach me what a stupid deduction that was!). He had shaggy white hair so I called him Rags. That was a few months before the release of the animated film Who Framed Roger Rabbit in 1988 which I saw with my then 8- & 10-year-old nephews Jason and Matthew. Matthew had once remarked that Rags reminded him of a cartoon dog, so to entertain and impress them, I embellished Rags’ name: he was now Ragamuffin Toontown Toon. Jason and Matthew were fascinated by what I told them was Rags' "real name" because it was so complicated. I explained that it meant he was a Toon from Toontown named Ragamuffin, but we called him Rags for short. I reminded them that "toons," as we learned in the film, were cartoons, and we all agreed that Rags fit the bill!

We maintained the tradition of non-human names for our pets with the acquisition of Rocky, the tiny black kitten who I found mewing with his eyes were matted shut early one morning on a pile of rubble in the yard next door. John thought we should call him Rocky because of his rocky beginnings. Very appropriate. And, true to form, Rocky died in 2000 after fighting, like the Rocky of filmdom, with a neighborhood bully and contracting something like kitty AIDS. ...My theory gains strength.

Early on we had decided to find Rocky a "sibling" at the suggestion of his vet because big John was being driven crazy by little Rocky weaving in and out between his feet all the time. So we found a white kitten at a shelter. It was at the time when the USSR broke up, so in honor of that we named the new white kitten Sasha. It may seem that we were starting to loosen the grip on my rule not to saddle pets with human names. But not really, because we only knew "Sasha" as Russian-sounding...we’d never known a human with such a name. Sasha died this past November at age 17, his old body finally rebelling against continued life. Isn’t that kind of what happened to the USSR? Hmmmmmmm.....my hypothesis continues to grow.

Then a couple years after we got the cats we got Maddie from a shelter, so she didn’t come to us with a name either. We actually named her Madame Butterfly, for the opera by Puccini. She’s part Papillion, which is the French word for butterfly, so naming her Madame Butterfly was appropriate. But we never call her Madame Butterfly. We immediately shortened her name to Maddie. And when we want to sound more scolding with her, we call her Madolyn. We didn’t consider the name Madame Butterfly a human name, because it is a fictional character. But both of her nicknames are as human as you can get. So finally we had started to loosen the grip on the Rule! And just in time, because as the oldest of our three dogs and the only female, she has been known to come across as imperious as her formal designation "Madame Butterfly" conveys or as humble as "Maddie" suggests.

In 2001, about a year after 12-year-old Rags died, we located Figaro through Small Paws Rescue. We actually named him before we saw him. We were fetching him from a groomer in Michigan who adored Bichons and took them in until she found them homes. Since he had been given up by previous owners, he already had a name, Jasper, but we did not like that name at all. I don’t know why, because it is a perfectly fine name, but it just wasn’t "us." Since he was only about seven months old, we didn’t feel compelled to keep the name. So we decided to change it to Figaro, the name of a trickster with a heart of gold in one of our favorite operas, Rossini’s The Barber of Seville, who is also a character in Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro. You know the song, at least from cartoons when we were growing up: FIIIIIII-GARO, FII-Ggaro, figarofigarofigaro, FIII-Garo! (Sometimes we sing that to him, but he ignores us.) Funny thing is that Figaro the dog has turned out to be very much like his fictional namesake! How did that happen?! Aha! More evidence that my theory holds water!

Finally we adopted Phoenix. A few months after finding Figaro, we came across a photo of a small bedraggled dog on the Small Paws Rescue website. The photo was attached to a post entitled "We think he’s a Bichon." The pathetic looking thing was the color of weak iced tea (Bichons are normally white). He had been found hungry, wet, filthy and covered in burrs. A lady rescued him from a kill-shelter and kept him at her place with 17 other dogs she kenneled until she could find them homes. She had bathed him several times and discovered that he was not tan but white! And since he was so sweet natured, she called him Sugar. But John and I couldn’t imagine ourselves calling "Sugar! Come, Sugar!" So we thought of Phoenix, the mythical bird who rose from the ashes to live again. That seemed to describe the situation in which the dog found himself, so "Phoenix" it was. Although we named him before we met him, it turns out that his personality reflects the sunny, warm, laid back qualities of the southwestern city of the same name, even though he wasn’t actually named after it. And so, my theory is confirmed.

Unfortunately, now that we have two dogs with names beginning with the "f" sound, I have a problem with calling Figaro "Figaro" and calling Phoenix "Phoenix." So they’ve had to get used to the names "Figaro-Phoenix" and "Phoenix-Figaro" because I inevitably say the wrong name first and then correct myself in the same breath. They have adapted easily to that annoying habit of mine.

It’s amazing not only how our pets adapt to the names we bestow upon them, but also how they end up reflecting the qualities their names suggest! So, when it comes to naming our pets, I have to disagree somewhat with the lines from Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Sc. 2, "What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet." If my theory is true, that pets begin to reflect the qualities that their names suggest, you need to be careful! Think what might happen if you jokingly name your next dog "Stinky" or your next cat "Skunk"! The joke may turn out to be on you!

Below: The Living Namesakes: Madame Butterfly aka Maddie aka Madolyn, Phoenix and Figaro, who, true to form, refuse to pose nicely when I ask them to.

In Ireland, they say "amh amh." (I don’t get that one, are they yawning after too many pints?)

In Thailand, dogs say "hoang hoang!" (Can’t you just hear the accent?)

Indonesia... "guk guk" (my fave).

And in France, it’s "oua oua." (Even the dogs there sound haughty!)

My dogs cannot say ANY of those things. They just speak plain old English: woof.

But, you might say, that’s not even a word! And you would be wrong.

I looked it up in a dictionary (it’s true, I have nothing better to do with my time). And it wasn’t just the dictionary app on my iPhone (but I did look it up there, too, and it said the exact same thing); it was the huge eight pound (I did, I weighed it) Webster’s Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language Updated Revised Deluxe Edition.

And what did it say?

It said "Woof."

Right there on page 2187, fifth entry from the bottom of the middle column: "Woof." And no, I'm not talking about the word related to the texture of a fabric (that would be the sixth entry from the bottom). I'm talking about the entry for the word which Webster relates to the bark of a dog. So, since it really is a word related to the bark of a dog, and it is an English word at that, in the English Dictionary, and my dogs say that word, my dogs speak English. Arf!

(...yeeeees, that’s there, too...on page 111...)

One last thought...I have noticed that my dogs may speak a little pidgin Italian...the translation of "woof" into Italian is "bau bau," which sounds suspiciously like our English word "bow-wow."

It's not too difficult to figure out from the title of this Blog that I love to travel and I love my dogs, and this Blog is a tribute to both of those special parts of this divorce attorney's "other" world